Balm,    Dictionary.com definition # 3/  Something comforting and soothing. Example,  soft music is a balm.

   If one looks for a definition of the balm of Gilead aside from questionable unguents and speculative associations that have little or no  biblical relevance as far as I can see, though they are comforting, the evidence is thin.We don't know who composed the gospel song, a black spiritual, but the root may be Genesis 31.

  However, despite unmentioned anywhere else, all that I can find is Genesis 31. It is the story of Jacob and Laban. Jacob goes to the land of his mother's brother to find a wife. He falls for Rachel the younger but is given the elder Leah and for that must work for seven years for Laban. Then he is given Rachel for seven more years of work and a further six years piled on. Jacob has had enough and removes his wives and children and flocks and surreptitiously escapes to the hill country of Gilead across the Euphrates hotly pursued by Laban.
    Things look bad but Jacob has obeyed God in this move, and moreover God has also appeared to Laban and cautioned him about no nonsense. They meet in the hill country of Gilead and know that they are kinsmen. Together they build a heap of stones they name Gileed. They build together a pillar they name Mizpah which means watch point. These symbols are a witness. Anger is comforted and soothed Laban kisses his daughters and grandchildren and leaves to his side of the pillar and the Gileed. Jacob goes on to his life with his wives and children and flocks.
    This may be the balm of Gilead. This Easter Day It could be a balm for the troubles around the world.

It's a bit gloomy but reality. "--you are dust and to dust you shall return."  Of course it is the stunning insight to realize that we are not "in nature", dropped in as Genesis implies, to dominate, but "of nature", composed of the same atoms and molecules as everything else, so to arise from the earth and return to it is food for thought as we celebrate Ash Wednesday and contemplate our life between the dust of creation and the dust of  reunion.That assertion of Genesis 3 no atheist could argue about.
   Last night I dreamt I was in a bar in Toronto with the pianist. I was served a poorly dressed pizza by a server dressed scanty.The pizza had a thin brush of something resembling cheese with a single tomato on tpp. She offered to speak to my psychiatrist and to my realtor for two sawbucks. I had to eat the pizza by hand and no serviette was offered. If I try to think of my life in between the dusts the glare of this metropolitan nonsense gives no immediate clue. Carl Jung where are you?
    I was out of my element.Toronto is a transit for me. It was hard to reconcile "in nature" and contemplation with my preparation for Ash Wednesday and the joy of my life between the dusts when I drew my being from the earth and joined the tree, the pansy, and the feathered and furry friends and mankind of every ilk as a part of earth. It is enough for now. If there is more my curiosity is peaked to wait and see. Oil and ash and a crucifix on my forehead gives me hope, but Genesis still implies the reality, "of nature".

Some time around 1980 the pianist and I were atop of Mount Tabor, which tradition identifies as the Mount of The Transfiguration. We looked down the steep slope to the south at the Valley of Jezreel and beyond to the cotton fields of the Galilee. The valley floor was the road of the Babylonian army to Egypt and the Egyptians to Babylon. It was the road for the Greek and  later Roman armies and eventually the Arab and Turkish armies and even later the British and German armies. It is a famous road and in the way of these destructive forces was Israel and the city of Megiddo, sitting dab-smack in the middle of the valley. It was destroyed, rebuilt , sacked and destroyed many times but is now as we observed a deep and testamentary excavation of the horror of war. The name of the city has given rise to the term "Armagiddon", As Jesus and his friends descended the north slope to go to his trial and death after his transfiguration he knew he was facing his own armagiddon. It's hard to stand atop that kind of mountain, look at that kind of valley, think of that sort of city, that man knowing the doom he faced and moving towards it, and not be touched by one's history of death. This week is Ash Wednesday when we receive our ashes.

The table of elements offered as source begs their use. I couldn't resist. My thesis at UBC in 1960 included measurments of the measured exchange of  extracellular space Na driven into the intracellular space and the measured of the intracellular space K driven into the extracellular space in response to a hypertensive agent driver. The totals calculated from the measured inulin space in two Labrador Retrievers. An experiment to assess the relationship of hypertension and the exchange of elements through the cellular barrier. It was a full year experiment.   The Haiku is as follows:
Na and K exchange a place
Intracellular and extracellular space
With injection of a hypertensive trace.
I'm sure  the thesis could still be found in the Dept. of Anatomy under a pound of dust.

There was a time when the three R's were taught in the schools. Reading, Riting and Rithmatic. That technology has replaced these no longer useful skills for anyone under fifty has led to the loss of critical thinking skills by the substitution of the fourth R that has appeared in spades, and that is Reductionism. In the evolution of communication methods of mankind, we went from a primitive oral society to the written, a visual society to a cognitive society. We have, from technology of today, returned to the primitive oral and visual society. A reductionist society reduces the complex to a simpler form, often oral and visual and governed by the casuistry one sees in advertising, politics and activist claims. "I'm really busy" ,they that look and listen say. ,"Give me a summary, or opinion, nothing to read in full. A talking head on a video is good." I have to confess I am guilty too and it's laziness on my part. Intellectual laziness. It's not that I don't read or write or calculate numbers but laziness has led me to read the first and last paragraph of a long article. That's caving in to reductionism and i'm not busy. Maybe I am becoming primitive as well as the under fifties.

Yesterday we had a workshop on story telling. It appeared to me that I was the most curmudgeonly attendant there. The workshop was conducted by an Episcopal priest who is a professional story teller. Her stories were allegorical but not scriptural. The sort of story telling that scripture utilizes are simple allegorical stories that tell us something about ourselves if we identify with the stories and the characters within them. It can be creative, and constructive. Half of the people at the workshop were Anglicans and half were not church people but were interested in this sort of story telling. The priest may have specifically avoided scriptural tales in view of the participants. The act of relating to one another through listening to allegorical tales, reacting to the characters in the stories in the various ways that one does, and vicariously to one another as a result, produces an interesting and valuable insight about how  one thinks about oneself and the tangible and intangible reality you think  you know. Whether fable or parable, allegory or metaphor we can delve into a head space ourselves or learn from others. Of course whether we were church goers or not, there was no discernible difference in the responses. And yet when I look at the liturgy on any Sunday, the readings of scripture, the hymns, the psalms sung, even the prayers have significant elements of allegory. What that does is allow in interpretation a respect to the diversity amongst us. Our God-given right to be ourselves in all things of the spirit and to follow where that will lead in charity and harmony, even the curmudgeonly.

I see lately that Donald Trump at his meetings now sits with his arms crossed tightly around himself, wrapping his body tightly, seemingly holding onto himself for dear life. Trying desperately to keep himself together. His spokesperson brushing the glue of fatuity on what bits seem to be coming apart. Such a contrast in the past with the free swinging style of yesteryear, erect, leaning forward, hands in the air, gesticulating pointedly. He was loose and seemed fearless. Confidence galore. At meetings in the past, basking in the act of signature, displaying it with aplomb. He reeked with self satisfaction and moved with grace and triumph. At best however, a popinjay with a farrago of ideas. It's hard to align Jingoism and professed Christianity.  Body language, posture, motion and outward expression have disappeared now into an inward wrapping physically that is reflective of the current state of mind of the gentleman. It also is reflective of his current belief that his country should adopt his posture, wrapped tightly around itself, inward looking, unwilling any longer to be expansive, open, free swinging,  but fearful and casuistically protective. Cosseted secrets; now looming destruction.  Now up a tree, dogs baying, no higher can he climb, no distance or speed he can run to elude the hunters. No tree high enough.  What a turn of events. The posture of the leader. The posture of the party. The posture proposed for the country.

   My mother was a cook who often cooked offal for her family, and we grew up, as most boys do, enjoying what ever your mother cooked since it was all you knew, growing up on the bald prairie. It is also true that we were flesh eaters as well but we made no distinction between flesh and offal. Now if my mother was Greek or Italian I could probably attest to her love of offal but she was of English origin and I put it down to her enhanced learning curve and willingness to try everything. I remember everything  tasted pretty good.
   Later in life the pianist and I spent some time in Greece and wandering through the market in Argos one day we came upon the de-fleshed hung lamb, mutton, goat,and calves , all for sale of what was left, offal swinging from the rafters. Brain attached to spine, pancreas, liver and kidneys attached as well, Heart and lungs tied in place, cleaned stomach and ileum and testicles also swinging freely. I recounted to the pianist my mother's culinary exploits and what we relished. Pancreas (sweetbreads), Liver, Kidney, Stomach and Ileum (tripe). Stomach is better tripe than ileum as the lining is thicker and juicier. Brain does not have much flavour so we tried and skipped it, so never risked Mad Cow Disease. A favorite I remember was stuffed heart. Cardiac muscle is tender. Lung is used in wieners so we got it that way. We never tried testicle, possibly a last straw for her. We fed udder to the dog. The pianist was unimpressed with my childhood tales and lucky for me flesh is always on the menu when we married. Still I have to say, by and large offal, is not always awful.

   When I was a little boy I was given an illustrated book, my favorite, about Pinocchio. Written in 1883 by Cario Collodi and popularized by Walt Disney it is a satisfying allegory of life. Ranking with the Wizard of Oz or The Book of Jonah as lessons to digest and implement. Of course the stories are colorful and remain for a lifetime but  one has to be old to fully as possible digest the allegory and listen to the ghost of the cricket (Il Grillo Parlante} to implement the lessons of Pinocchio. Whether the Wizard of Oz, or the ghost of Jiminy Crickets, (Jesus Christ coded) or God could teach and reach in all these needful somewhat humans is a question fulfilled in Pinocchio and the Cowardly Lion, the Tin Man and the Scarecrow but not in Jonah. He remains too human. Of course that is the point of that allegory. There is not a winner every time. Our self righteousness doesn't always allow us to listen. When Richard gave yesterday's sermon he noted that God had changed his mind and forgave the sins of Ninevah. He didn't mention that Jonah was pissed off with God because he had been sent to confront them and God forgave them. I suppose always wanting retribution is only too human but it seems the sin of the self righteous. God, Wizard and Jiminy Crickets forgive me and protect me if I'm too human.